Biting Thoughts
by i that breathes
Summary: Thoughts that eat away extracted and placed here.
1. art or not?

Perhaps I am not a writer graced with skill defined by line after line of beautiful works. Perhaps I am nothing more than a clumsy claudhopper mosying and shuffling and bumbling along. But I'd like to think that at some time or another, my work is the most delicate and and fluent of expressions. I like to imagine, sometimes, that the shoddy, unnamed quotes I use, created by myself of course, are some great and wise saying from a most eloquent being, though it be far from truth. In unfortunate reality, I am taken from my high post and reduced to naught but a blundergoing fool. (What's that? It isn't a word? I'll make it one then.)

These little rectangles of letters, paragraphs and stanzas, make my thoughts known to Everyone or perhaps only to No One. What matters is that I have an audience, even if it only be the Voices in my head. (What's that you say? I'm Insane? But I am just as Amused as I am Disturbed- so be it then.)

Is there a meaning to this mindless rabbling? Perhaps some sort of hidden message warning us of danger or providing us new insight to some widely known internal truth..?

No, not at all. I just write because I can.

And I would have ended it there, just to be abrupt and keep you wondering, but then I decided to keep going.

When I am writing, I do as a please, you see.

Comma comma comma comma comma and more words no stops just keep going going going until my hands reach my mind and the dust settles and I may breathe a bit better than usual.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

Today, I think it is both. Working, not working, working working working not working but still working.

One day, instead of forcing my thoughts into the compacted form of a poem or a story or an allegory

I might write them as they come to me, in small, random and disjointed bursts.

One on dogs one on cats on bats on rats on cars and mice and fingers and hammers and bones and milk and whatever else comes along.

So is it art, or arrogance, or self-importance (What, they're the same thing? I choose to use both, thank you)

or lack of sanity or silliness or something else that cannot be remembered (I have a short memory when I need a long one and a long one when I need a short one)

The style changed a bit as this wore on. It changed because I changed. Because you changed. Because the words decided that they could not sit still and simply popped out onto the page. (Unruly little things, aren't they?) So forgive me if I seem to've forgotten are (our) original topic:

Art, or not?


	2. migraine

Uta was not a stranger to the empty feeling that seemed to drain him of his energy before he could open his eyes that morning. The ghoul was no more startled or concerned when he realised he didn't have the will to sit up. Instead of crying or calling for help as most would, Uta simply allowed his eyes to close again. Sighing quietly through his nose, the mask maker forced himself to swallow in a vain attempt to relieve his unreasonably dry throat. After three failed attempts, he gave up and stretched out one pale, tattooed arm and began blindly feeling around for the bottle of water he usually kept on the nightstand. "Looking for something?" Startled, Uta quickly pushed himself up, rinkkaku already half drawn and prepared to strike when he came face-to-face with Yomo. "...Renji-kun," the mask maker acknowledged solemly as his kagune retreated back into his flesh soundlessly. "You startled me," he added dully, not seeming at all alarmed by his friend's sudden appearance in his bedroom. "I can see that," the grey haired ghoul responded with a small smile. "What has you all jumpy? It's not like you." Sighing, Uta laid back down and touched one hand to his head, which had begun to thrum with the oncomings of a migraine. "Nightterrors," he answered, sounding uncertain of his own response. "And other things, perhaps..?" Yomo glanced back down just in time to see his rival's eyes squeeze shut. "Headache?" he asked as he reached for the glass Uta had been fumbling for when he came in. "Migraine," the tired ghoul corrected as he pinched the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stave off the painful throbbing between his eyes. Yomo eyed him suspiciously as he waited for his friend to sit up. "You don't seem very alarmed. Does this happen often?" Giving up on waiting for the pain to disperse, Uta sat up again, slower this time. "Maybe, maybe not," he slurred as he snatched the glass from the other ghoul. He stared at the cup blankly for a moment before he remembered that he was supposed to be drinking from it. "Perhaps I'm just getting old?" Yomo snorted and rolled his eyes. Although it was true that many ghouls only lived half as long as most humans, someone as powerful as Uta was unlikely to die anytime soon. Still, he played along and continued the small talk. "Who knows, maybe. Getting knocked around by doves and screwing around in the rougher wards takes a toll after awhile." Uta nodded several times, then stopped once Yomo gave him an odd look. Shifting uncomfortably, the tattooed ghoul repositioned himself several times before he finally gave up. Unceremoniously, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto the floor. "Hot?" Uta shrugged and leaned against the headboard again. The two sat in silence for an unmeasured amount of time before Yomo spoke again. "...So, getting much sleep lately?" A stupid question. Yomo knew better than anyone else, save for Itori, that Uta was an insomniac with highly irregular hours of sleep, even for a ghoul. Still, he needed to keep the charade up. Uta already knew what he was probing for, but somehow pretending to have small talk and dancing around the topic made them both feel better. "Oh, you know, here and there. Harder to catch sleep during the busier hours..." Uta trailed off. There weren't really any "busier" hours anymore. Who needed masks designed for murderers when killing wasn't needed anymore...? Since the fall of CCG and the formation of more pro-ghoul alliances, food had become less of a concern to the ghoul population as factories producing edible versions of human food began cropping up everywhere; there wasn't a need to be up all hours of the night either. Uta swooned dizzily and Yomo caught him by the arm. "Maybe you should lie back down." Uta didn't protest, nor did he bother to push against the firm arm pressing against his chest. Closing his eyes again, the weary ghoul tried to make sense of the patterns flashing beneath his eyelids while Yomo continued. "In fact, maybe I should take you to see someone. Can't be a good sign if you're having all these migraines and whatnot..." For a moment, Uta wasn't sure if Yomo had stopped talking to think or if the other ghoul had left, but he quickly realised that he did not want to be left alone to his thoughts again. One black and red eye snapped open and scanned the room. No sign of Yomo. "...Renji-kun?" Uta called out softly. "Right here." Unlike earlier, Uta's reaction was slightly less dignified as he jolted and scrambled back from the edge of the bed where Yomo's voice had come from. "...What are you doing?"


	3. occupational dissatisfaction

Sometimes, Uta just wanted to keep himself occupied.

It didn't matter how, as long as whatever he was doing distracted him. Hunting aimlessly and killing off members of his own ward? Fine. Harassing, fighting, and getting his ass kicked by Yomo? Fine. Cannibalism? Tried it, not really his thing, hence his half-formed kakuja. Sewing? Relatively peaceful activity, especially in comparison to the previous few. Sex? Nearly just as violent as the rest. He either ended up killing his partners in brutal ways or drinking heavily to erase the feeling of their hands against his skin. Piercings? He had enough of those already, including a rarely seen trailing of black studs lining his spine. Stalking? Well, watching Kaneki had been fun for a bit, but what with him being married to Touka now... Uta didn't mind a little voueryism, but he would get bored watching them cuddle and make love every night. Really, that was probably the reason he had stopped watching. It had very little to do with Touka and Kaneki beating him senseless when he was caught peeping the last time. (How was he supposed to know they would do that there of all places? And he had just said he had seen them in the act before, so why such a strong reaction..?) Uta had virtually nothing to do anymore. Mask making had been his primary function during the conflict between ghouls and CCG. Now, in a world where ghouls were accepted just a bit more than before and hunted when they didn't adhere to the new rules, masks weren't needed quite as much as they had been. His favourite passtime had turned into a mechenical and depressing process of creating an uninspiring snag of cloth with a scattering of patterns, only to throw it into a large overflowing box that grew fuller as the days dragged on. Wearily, Uta sat back and pressed a hand against his forehead, hoping to ease the low throbbing that had settled between his eyes. Absently, he lazily swirled around the contents of a half-empty wine glass and considered his options. He could always find a new victim to stalk or someone else to fool around with, but then he'd be bored again right afterwards. The mask maker snorted suddenly and said aloud "Bored? Ah, you fool. You are not bored at all." Chuckling, Uta rose from his chair and wandered over to the window to watch the street. "That's right," he murmuered lowly. "I'm not really bored, just empty." Indeed, the flat, dull tone he had taken to and the listing of his hobbies had not really been anything more than yet another distraction from what truly ailed him:

Uta was depressed.

With a huff, he turned on his heel, away from the window, and stomped back over to his seat. Hesitating to settle into what had once been his work station, he instead ran his fingers through his hair, which he had grown out a bit in the days since Ankeitu's collaspe. This new peace that had settled over Tokyo- it wasn't meant for ghouls like him. Yoshimura would have had an even harder time than he, perhaps, but quite frankly, Uta felt too old for this change. Someone like Kaneki or Ayato or Touka could forget the days of having to kill to survive as if it had all been a bad dream of sorts. They could move on and find new lives, leaving it all in their pasts. Unlike them, however, Uta could not. He was a killer, born or bred he wasn't quite certain. What he did know was that this was not meant for him, this stillness. He was used to hiding, being on the run, surviving by strength and by wits; the adreniline that came of wondering which day would be his last, or if he would fall prey to one of the CCG's newest tricks had kept him alive. Now, without that, he was left to face the dull, empty feeling within him that not even art seemed to relieve. In a world where everyone joined hands and agreed to live as beautifully as possible, there was no longer any room for twisted, ugly creatures like Uta. For the first time in many years, Uta began seriously contemplating suicide. The thought had crossed his mind before, once when there had been a long stretch without any food and he had first realised that his existence was empty and meaningless without something to maim or kill, much like it had now. Obviously, he had done no such thing and forced himself to carry on for the sake of protecting whatever had been precious to him at the time. But now? No one really had any need of him. As a mask maker, business had shifted drastically once ghouls realised they no longer needed to kill in order to eat. As a friend, he had been a guest to a few gatherings. In most of those, he found himself being curiously studied by Kaneki- no, Haise's former students. He did not enjoy being an attraction of sorts, so he had stopped coming. Yomo would still drop by form time to time, whether he was dragged there by Itori or he had come under the guise of some flimsy excuse to check up on his oldest friend and rival. Uta would tolerate their prescence, but he always felt somewhat relieved when they would leave and he no longer had to pretend to be amused by the stories from the cafe or what outrageous thing Hideki had done during one of their parties. Uta found that he prefered to suffer his misery alone and in silence. Yomo and Itori seemed to be perfectly fine with this sudden change, despite them having been there with him almost every step of the way, right up to the termination of CCG and the formation of the Ghoul Human Alliance. "Che!" He threw the glass against the wall, not caring as it shattered and oozed crimson over the floor. 'Idiots! They are no more suited for this life than I am, and yet-' Uta paused, and then he frowned as something uncomfortable settled heavily in his chest. 'And yet, they have come to be satisfied.' Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose and confessed aloud "I am the only one who does not belong in this world."

"Well, I wouldn't say you're the only one."

Uta looked up and blinked. Leaning lazily against the door frame stood a small.. Person. 'A male,' Uta confirmed with a subtle whiff of the air. 'Adult, not a child. A human too.'


	4. s i l e n c e

Silence

Still me

Silence

Fill me

Silence

Be my strength

Silence

While I scream


	5. misinspiration

It is not so very often I hit snags like these. Nothing, nothing, nothing at all comes to mind when I imagine pain or beauty or tragedy or frailty or dea- darkness... I need something now, anything- be it pen and paper, knife and blood, typewriter and hand, needle and thread- _**something something something something**__..._ I have forgotten how to release the art trapped inside myself. It kills me now, strangling me over and over and over. _**I am vexed.**_ I twist and turn and _writhe_ within my own skin if only for the sake of becoming something just as twisted and horrible on the outside. But I don't want that. No, what lies inside is my redemption. "To reach the white lights," that horrible woman had declared. Over and over again, Kasane did what she needed to see her light until it ended her. I shall do the same. Over and over and over I shall writhe and struggle and squirm and inch my way into the light and drag myself along for as far as I can. And when the cold, black melancholy grasp of the Abyss closes around my weak heart... i will die. But before death- no, in death, I will reach the end. A beautiful, wonderful end that encompasses the beauty of my frail soul. **_Conceit conceit conceit conceit conceit- conflict_**. Am I beautiful? Or am I desperate? I cannot find cannot find cannot find the end without some guide to show me. This is a tunnel? Does it end? Tunnels end, end and open. Caves close and stay closed and forever trap their victims within. Is my body a cave? I am a cave? **_Cave cave cave cave cave cave cave..._**Something wet. Tears? Blood? It tastes salty. Good good good. Sharp and metallic, blood. Blood tastes as tears and tears as blood. Their correlation not coincidence **_not not not..._** Repeating and tiring, over and over and over. I am tired. The soul and the body and the mind all want to rest. The soul is agitated by itself and the Others. It wants to rest somewhere where it can shine brightly. _'Not yet!'_ It insists so strongly. _'Not yet may we sleep until we find some Good Place to Sleep sleep sleep sleep...'_ We Sleep not until Soul is fulfilled. Until her hunger and lust for beauty- endless beauty has been satisfied. So we will kill and kill and maim and maim until we reach the end of the... What? The end of _WHAT...?!_ The tunnel. Yes, yes. I remember now. The flashes confused me for a moment, but I remember. I Always remember. **_Always always always remember EVERYTHING_**... So haunting and tiring and exhausting and twice over two said one for the other six... Where did I go? Am I back now? Why are you watching me with such horrored expression? Have you not sinned as well? What right do you have to shake your head?**_ I am_** _**a Mantis, a Mantis a Mantis a Mantis...**_ **_What was that? A sound? Are you crying? Am I crying? Why would I cry?_**I am not sad... Broken is not sad. I am tired, so tired... Something hurts _everything hurts_... **_Was someone crying?_** I couldn't hear over the noise... Strangely, I feel better now. But irritated. Something happened something happened but I do not care. It's prickling me somewhere that one same something that I can never name, but where is it?

_Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te_

It was somewhere. Somewhere here-

_Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te_

Shut up, I can't think.

_Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te_

I can almost see it, somewhere over there. Maybe if I-

_Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te_

-can reach the-

_Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te_

-light?

_**Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te, nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te, nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te.**_

"Sed non potes vivere."


End file.
